Miss A looks across
the class at me.
Benedict, what's
the difference
between may and can?
I look at her
standing there
built like a brick
out house;
arms folded,
hair brushed back.
May and can?
Yes, if you said to me
can I go out to play?
I would say, yes,
you can, but no
you may not.
I look at the boy's head
in front; his hair is short,
the colour jet black.
Understand,
Benedict?
she says.
No, not really,
I say.
A titter
of small laughter.
She looks at the titterers
and stares them to silence.
Anyone know?
She asks.
Enid raises a hand.
Yes, Enid?
Miss A says.
When I say, can,
I’m asking of possibility;
when I ask, may,
I’m asking permission,
Enid says.
Miss A looks at her;
her eyes searching
the girl's features.
Where did
you read that?
Enid looks at me;
Benedict told me.
Miss A frowns,
then looks at me.
Did you?
I forgot about it.
The teacher raises
an eyebrow,
then says,
that is roughly
what it means,
the difference between
possibility and permissibility.
The room is silent;
Enid lowers her hand;
Miss A writes it
on the blackboard
in chalk.
I smile at Enid
unable to talk.
A BOY AND GIRL AND A TEACHER IN LONDON IN 1950S